Don Pendleton - Serpent's Lair

“Dammit! Shoot the trees!” Hogan roared at his men. He was aching from being slammed in the chest by his own gun. His hand hurt, but he pulled his Colt and opened fire on the spot where the single rifle shot had come from.

THE EXECUTIONER CHARGED through the woods, heading in the direction of the path where Rebecca Anthony intended to make her escape. While on the run, he threw the bolt on the hunting rifle to chamber another round and fired into the shadowed mass of a gunman blazing away with his handgun. The shooter screamed, and his body tumbled away. The number of bullets slicing through the forest hadn’t decreased; they were still out for his blood. Bolan cut hard to the right, charging to where he estimated the young woman would be on the path.

HONEY’S FEET HURT as she made the run along the path. She expected one of the bullets behind her to thunder into her flesh and drop her any minute. She felt completely helpless as she pumped her legs, striving to survive for just a few more yards, to get around the bend and into the foliage.

The prospect of getting shot while escaping filled her with dread. The plan to run for her life and strike out for her freedom seemed like the scatterbrained plot of a woman doomed to die.

Then two hundred pounds of muscle rammed into her in a blindsiding crash. One strong arm scooped her off her cut and bloody feet and carried her into the heavy bushes and trees on the opposite side of the path, as gunfire crackled all around.

“Stop shooting! Stop shooting! He has the girl!” Machida shouted.

“Fuck!” Hogan screamed. “Get into the woods!”

Honey stared up at the man carrying her. He was craggy faced, and intense. However, the way he held her, putting both arms around her to support her, told her something.

This black-haired stranger had no business with either the Yakuza or the mercenaries who showed up to retrieve her for her father.

THE WALKER STIRRED. He sat up with a sudden lurch and aimed at Machida, holding down the trigger of his Uzi. Despite a blood-spattered face, the slender old man was still in fighting form, and if the Yakuza boss hadn’t spotted the motion out of the corner of his eye, he would have been cut down where he stood. As it was, the limousine was peppered with 9 mm holes.

Hogan swung around the back of the car and pulled the trigger on his Colt .45, snapping two shots into the head of the walker, blowing off a huge chunk of skull in the process.

This time, the Uzi-toting old man slumped for good.

Machida and Hogan walked slowly to the lifeless man. Both reloaded their pistols on the slow, uncertain journey over, and saw that the wisps of mustache and beard were glued-on fakes, half-washed away by the spray of blood from the first salvo of fire the combined forces launched at him.

Machida bent and pulled at the ratty gray robes of the old man and saw the black Kevlar armor underneath. “What the hell is this?” he asked.

“You tell me, Hoss,” Hogan said. He raised and leveled his Colt at the Japanese mobster. Machida looked at him but kept his pistol aimed at the ground.

“You think I wanted this fool to let the girl get away?” Machida asked. “She’s running into the woods.”

“This is your country, man. You had men in the tree line,” Hogan grumbled.

Machida shook his head. “We’ll help you find the girl. Under one condition.”

“You’re giving me new conditions for the deal? You already have the ransom from Anthony.”

“I’m not talking about the blueprints,” Machida answered. “Well, in a way I am.”

Hogan lowered his gun. “What are you talking about, then?”

“You came dressed to kill, so to speak. That’s why I had men watching, ready to burn you back. I figured you’d have body armor and automatic weapons,” Machida answered. “What I didn’t anticipate were the two problems coming out of the woods.”

“And how do you know they were two separate problems?”

“Simple. One didn’t want his presence known, but his hand was forced when you were about to shoot the girl,” Machida answered. “This one is Japanese. I’m not sure about the identity of the other man….”

“He’s allegedly an FBI agent named Matt Cooper,” Hogan replied.

“Allegedly an FBI agent? Or allegedly named Matt Cooper?” Machida inquired further.

“Both. I’m thinking he was using us to get closer to you and your boss, and just ended up on the wrong end of our sting,” Hogan answered.

Machida rubbed his chin. “A temporary truce, then? It’ll be more profitable to work together. And there is nothing wrong with taking the blueprints you have, and making two copies of them. One you can blackmail Anthony with, and one we can sell on the black market.”

Hogan tilted his head. “It sounds like a win-win situation.”

“But does it sound acceptable to you?”

The mercenary put his hand forth. “It’s a deal.”

Machida didn’t trust the American as they pressed flesh, but at least it would give the Yakuza headman some stretch to figure out how to deal with him.

BOLAN CAME TO A HALT, his reserves of strength exhausted during his frantic run through the trees with Rebecca Honey in his arms. He set her down and squatted, looking at her feet.

“What’re you stopping here for?” Honey asked, trying to mask her doubt and uncertainty with a hard edge to her voice.

Bolan didn’t bother looking up from the cuts on the soles of her feet. Most of them were shallow, but a couple of them were deep and painful looking, seeping blood. He grabbed his T-shirt and ripped it. There was a slight gasp as Honey looked at his naked abdomen.

“Did you lose a fight with a weed cutter?” she asked.

Bolan shook his head. “Occupational hazard. Scar tissue. Your feet look like they’ll be okay if I can control the bleeding with some direct pressure compresses.”

“And all you have is your T-shirt. What happened, you forgot to go to the standard action-hero supermarket before going on this little adventure?” Honey asked. She looked down at herself, her deliberately torn clothing had no extra material to add to her own healing.

“Why the hell were my father’s men trying to shoot me?”

“They wanted more money,” Bolan answered.

“And you?”

“Name’s Matt Cooper. FBI Hostage Rescue Team. Rebecca…”

“Call me Viscious Honey…or Honey for short.”

Bolan looked at her. “Honey, we’re cut off and have to find some transportation out of this valley. There are men hunting us down who would like nothing better than to gut me like a fish and leave me to watch whatever they’re going to do to you.”

Honey nodded. “Let ’em try something. I’ll make it cost them. Though, I am curious at how well the kidnappers treated me.”

“Not due to honor. Just smart business on the part of the Yakuza. However, Hogan’s going to show you off, roughed up, probably even tape any beating or other abuse they inflict on you,” Bolan said.

“I’m not going back to my father.”

Bolan sighed. “I don’t care what you do. I just want to make sure you’re away and safe. If you do what I say, things will be all right.”

Bolan tightened the strip of cloth around Honey’s foot and she gasped again, wincing in pain. Her foot was wrapped from the ball to near the ankle, a single restraining strap up around her ankle providing her with some security for her injured foot. Bolan pressed his thumb along her other foot, but only received a faint hiss as he touched one particularly deep cut.

“I’m trying to give the worst, most painful cuts as much protection as I can. I wish there was a better way, but at least your injuries will be wrapped up until I can get you some footwear,” Bolan said. “If we’re lucky, the next Yakuza guy I fight will have boots you can manage in.”